


You Love Me, I Love You Harder So

by leyley09



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Apologies to Irving Berlin, Inspired by a Movie, Loosely inspired by Annie Get Your Gun, M/M, Overly-competitive boys, Ridiculous, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-10 19:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10446054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09
Summary: Patrick circles around him at center ice. “Jonathan, my team is going to kick your team’s ass so hard your parents will be embarrassed without even knowing why.”“I’m gonna give you a lesson in goal scoring you’ll never forget.”“Toews, you couldn’t give me a lesson in long distance spitting. Anything you can do, I can do better.”“Oh yeah?”“I can do anything better than you.”____________________________________________________________________________________Jonathan Toews is used to be being the best. He has zero clue what to do with competition.Especially when the competition is cute.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to allthebros for running this great fic fest. It gave me the perfect excuse to finish something I'd been poking at for a while.
> 
> You don't need to be familiar with the plot of the musical Annie Get Your Gun to keep up with this. But if you're wondering what brought on such a weird mashup, watch this: ["Anything You Can Do" from Annie Get Your Gun (1950)](https://youtu.be/2fW5Z2z6pXM)
> 
> The only reason BHTV didn't air something like that in 2009 is they couldn't get Patrick into the dress - you'll never convince me otherwise.
> 
> This is, frankly, just an excuse to work "Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)" into a 1988 fic. It's so AU; just throw most of your expectations out the window - I hope it's still a good time.

The skills show at the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto can be a really boring place to work. It’s the same show, twice a day, four days a week, all summer long. Jonny’s pretty sure he can do his parts of the show in his sleep by the end of May. There are some skating drills, a bunch of trick shots, and the finale is a shoot out against an actual goalie. The only thing that’s keeping him from going absolutely crazy is, well, being better than everybody else. He knows that’s shallow and childish and a bunch of other uncomplimentary things, but it’s true. If he weren’t the best player here, he’d leave in a heartbeat.

When his coach at UND had suggested this as a way to keep his skills up over the summer, Jonny had figured it would be more fun than skating drills by himself in Winnipeg. Sometimes, it is. Playing in front of a crowd is exciting, and he loves the cheers when he does something particularly impressive. Toronto’s not a bad place to spend a summer, either. There’s plenty of stuff to see and do, even if he’s not doing it; it’s nice that the option is there. And it’s really great to have access to the rink at the HOF whenever he wants. The guy in charge of the skills show, Bobby, doesn’t mind if Jonny comes in early for his own practices or if a bunch of them stay after the afternoon show to play a pickup game or two.

But the show this afternoon has been boring and repetitive, and Jonny is counting the seconds until it’s over. He takes his turn at the shootout, but he’s not breaking out any of his better moves today. Even still, his ‘team’ wins the shootout. They salute the crowd as everyone cheers before heading off the ice. He’s smiling faintly at some of the other guys chirping each other when a voice pipes up from behind him.

“That was a pretty sad shootout move, bro. I expected better from a college boy.”

 _What_. Jonny turns to see a short, blond kid leaning against the wall. He looks like a stiff wind would blow him over. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

The kid gives him a slow, thorough once-over, starting at his skates. Jonny flushes uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I was talking to you. That was pathetic. I had better moves than that in midget.”

Okay, so this kid is an asshole. Fantastic. “Sure, man, whatever.” He doesn’t have to stand here and listen to this shit; he turns towards the locker room.

“If that’s the best you can do, well, that explains a lot about North Dakota’s hockey program.”

Well that’s going too far. “Really? You think you can do better?”

The kid shrugs. “I know I can do better.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“I got nowhere else to be. Or are you all talk, pipsqueak?”

The kid narrows his eyes and straightens up. Even at his full height, his head barely makes it to Jonny’s sternum.

“Fine. On the ice in 10?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jonny isn’t surprised to learn that a bunch of the other performers were listening to the exchange in the hallway. Most of them trail out onto the bench just a couple of minutes after he steps onto the ice again. A handful of minutes later, the hall door opens once again as Sam ushers the asshole kid through to the ice.

“Kaner,” he’s saying as they come through the door, “are you sure this is a good idea after --”

“It’s fine, Gags, chill out.” The kid waves him off and skates out to meet Jonny at center ice.

“Gags, you know this jackass?” Jonny can’t help feeling a little betrayed.

“Oh for christ’s sake, Toews, don’t be a dick.”

Jonny glares at the bench as the kid comes to a stop a couple feet away.

“So what are we doing?”

“Trick shots,” JT yells as Sam settles onto the bench next to him. “We know you can do all 10 in our show, Jonny. You both try all 10, whoever’s done the most at the end wins. And before you even try,” he points accusingly at Jonny, “you get one attempt at each. You fuck it up, too bad. No do-overs. Agreed?”

“Sure,” the kid shrugs.

“Fine,” Jonny pouts, just a bit. He gestures at the kid. “You want to go first?”

“Nope,” the kid replies with a smirk.

“Fine, whatever,” Jonny huffs. “P.K., set up the shots.”

They’re evenly matched through the first four shots. On shot five, Jonny misses the target by several inches; the kid nails it dead center. They even back out as Jonny hits the next shot but the kid doesn’t. They both succeed with next few shots. Jonny’s starting to get concerned, but he knows he can do the final shot. He hasn’t missed this one in weeks. He lines up, takes a couple of deep breaths, and shoots. And misses by _miles_. It’s not even close. It’s very quiet as the kid skates up to take his turn; the sound of his skates on the ice echoes off the walls.

‘Please miss, please miss, please miss.’ Jonny hasn’t wished for anything this hard since the infamous Christmas-without-the-remote-control-car.

The kid doesn’t miss.

There’s a stunned silence from the bench. It’s broken by applause from the other end of the rink, back by the Zamboni door.

“That was pretty impressive, son,” Bobby says to him. “What’s your name?”

“Patrick Kane, sir.”

“You wouldn’t happen to live around here, would you?”

“Outside Buffalo, actually. Why?”

“We’re losing a skater at the end of the week, and I’d love to have you fill that spot.”

“WHAT?!” Jonny shouts.

“He can stay with me, Bobby,” Sam interjects from the bench. “We go way back.”

“I’d have to check with my parents,” the kid - Patrick - responds with a faint smile. “They’re outside, if you want to talk to them?”

“Sure, son, let’s go do that.”

They head off the ice and into the hall, followed by Sam and JT. Everyone else begins to talk the second the door swings shut behind them. The excited chatter is the last straw for Jonny’s already strained temper. He picks up the nearest puck and hurls it at the glass.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It takes some convincing, but Patrick eventually talks his parents around. His mom tried the “you’re too young” argument, but some of the guys on the team are younger than he is. Sam finally butts in with his mom on the phone, confirming that there’s room for Patrick at their place. Real adult supervision is a winning argument, so Patrick spends the next half an hour filling out paperwork and listening to Sam bounce from topic to topic about the guys on the team.

“You’re gonna fit in fine, dude, but I can’t believe you’re already on Toews’s bad side.”

“Bad side?” Patrick flexes his fingers a couple times before starting in on the next stack of waivers.

“Yeah, he hates to lose. It’s like he thinks he’s the only one here on an NHL track, you know? The rest of us aren’t here because we suck.” Patrick side-eyes him until he mutters “shut up, I didn’t mean it like that”.

Patrick laughs. “It’s fine, Gags, I think I can handle it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I won’t let him bully me, I promise. I am fully prepared to be a dick right back to him.”

Sam looks skeptical but lets it drop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Every Sunday, the performance team meets up at Buddy’s, a cheap diner located next door to a just-shy-of-shabby arcade. They fill up on ridiculously unhealthy diner food in the way that only perpetually-starving teenage boys can before heading over to the arcade to fill up their afternoon.

Rumor has it that Jonathan “I win at everything” Toews thinks he’s hot shit at pinball. Patrick was warned about it three times before his first lunch at Buddy’s was over. Not only is he stupidly competitive about it - what a surprise, huh - but he’s also an ass about it when he wins.

Taking Toews down a notch has been the most entertaining part of Patrick’s summer. He’s just so easy to antagonize. Just the slightest hint of doubt that he’s not the best at something throws the guy into a tizzy. The sad thing is most of the time Patrick believes him. Toews is an incredibly talented hockey player; unfortunately, Patrick’s an _exceptionally_ talented hockey player. Even setting that aside, Toews can’t seem to admit that he can be beaten at anything. Patrick’s a competitive guy; he understands not wanting to lose, but this is a whole other level. Since no one else has stepped up to remind Toews that he’s only human, well, Patrick’s just going to have to do it.

Inside the arcade, Patrick dodges around pockets of shouting children and teenagers, heading for the pinball machines in the back. There are two of them, and he’s hoping to get back there before Toews. He isn’t successful. Toews is already part way through a game, based on his score. Patrick leans against a Ms. Pac-Man a few feet away to observe. A small part of his brain points out that, from here, he can’t actually observe the game. It’s being blocked by those broad shoulders. Patrick tells that part of his brain to shut up; he’s trying to enjoy the view.

Because he’s polite, Patrick waits until Toews has lost to announce his presence. “So what’s the high score on these things?”

Toews jumps, knocking his knee painfully into the front of the machine. He’s glaring when he turns to look at Patrick. “Two million even is the highest possible.”

“Gotten close?” Patrick strolls up to the other machine, running a far-too-casual hand along the front edge.

“Broke one mill last week,” Toews replies in the same tone.

“Hmm.” Patrick nods, eyes carefully on the machine, but watching Toews in his peripheral vision. “Is that all?”

Toews bristles visibly. “What, you think you can do better, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m just saying it’s possible.”

“Fine,” Toews snaps. “Wanna find out?”

Patrick turns toward him, smirk firmly in place. “You bet. Want to make it interesting?”

Toews nods shortly. “Loser cleans up pucks after practices for a week.”

“Deal”.

They both dig the required change out of their pockets and Toews counts them down. “Three, two, --” and the _asshole_ drops his ball in as he says “one.” Fucking cheater. Patrick can’t spare the focus to peek at what’s going on in the next machine. He’s too busy watching his own ball, anticipating where it will go, how it might bounce. He can tell from the sounds that Toews is still going, and after a few minutes, he realizes they’ve drawn a crowd of some of the other guys. He can vaguely hear them taking bets of their own.

One wrong bounce is all it takes though, and a just a moment later, Patrick’s ball takes that bounce and disappears out of play. He slumps forward against the machine. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Next to him, Toews dumps his own ball just seconds later. “I fucking told you!” he shouts, pointing at Patrick. He turns to the spectators. “Anyone else?”

“Uh, no.” P.K. replies with a laugh. “You’re on your own, man.” The rest nod and disperse rapidly, passing cash back and forth based on their betting.

“Want to try that again?” Jonny turns back to Patrick. “I could use someone to clean up my locker.”

“Whatever, man,” Patrick waves him off. “I think I’ve screwed myself over enough for one day.”

He won’t be teaching the asshole a lesson if he just blows all his change on pinball just to lose. He needs a better plan to _really_ make his “you’re not better than me” point stick.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He shouldn’t be so easy to rile up. His mother has been telling him that for most of his life, but knowing and actually doing are - so far - totally different things. He doesn’t know what it is about Patrick-fucking-Kane that drives him up a goddamn wall, but this little pest…

Today was supposed to be easy. Quick rehearsal practice, then they had the rink for a couple hours to do whatever. He’s been looking forward to the opportunity to scrimmage with the whole team for weeks. Instead of just simple, easy fun, Kaner had to start harassing him about not being a good team leader, and now --

Patrick circles around him at center ice. “Jonathan, my team is going to kick your team’s ass so hard your parents will be embarrassed without even knowing why.

“I’m gonna give you a lesson in goal scoring you’ll never forget.”

“Toews, you couldn’t give me a lesson in long distance spitting. Anything you can do, I can do better.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I can do anything better than you.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Please, I’m so better than you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I can do more squats than you.”

“I can do more pushups than you.”

“I know all the words to ‘Ice Ice Baby.’”

“That’s not something you should brag about, Tazer.”

“Fine, I can drink more than you.”

“Tried that last week, and you were wrong then too.”

“Kaner, you threw up three times.”

“No one said anything about holding it better; you just said drink more.”

“I can jump a hurdle.”

“I know the whole routine to _Thriller_.”

“I can catch more fish.”

“Can you bake a pie?”

“No.”

“Neither can I.”

“I can--”

“OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU TWO KNOCK IT OFF.” Sam elbows his way in between them. Jonny loses his balance and lands on his ass. Patrick skates backwards towards the rest of his “team”, cackling madly.

“Can we just play already,” Corey shouts from the goal behind Jonny.

“Yeah,” Jonny snaps, climbing back to his feet. “Let’s play.”

The pickup game does not go as he’d expected. Patrick skates circles around everyone, Jonny included. The guys he chose to play on his side actually step it up a notch, trying to keep up with him. Both their goalies are excellent, but Price is really in the zone this afternoon.

By the time the equipment manager leans through the door from the hall and yells that it’s time to quit, Patrick’s team is up 9-6 - four of those goals were Patrick’s, and he assisted on two more.

Jonny can’t deal with this shit any more today. If he could stomp off the ice without landing on his ass, he would. Instead, he slams every door he comes in contact with, even the one to leave the rink that’s on the automatic-close spring. He has to stand there for a second to force it closed, more quickly than usual, but it’s worth it.

How dare this little pipsqueak come into his rink and try to make him look bad (and succeed)?

“You could try ignoring his little challenges,” his mother suggests over the phone later that night. “Oh wait, I forgot who I was talking to.”

“ _Maman,_ please. He’s clearly in the wrong.”

“Yes, Jonathan, I heard you the first dozen times you’ve complained about this boy. Are you sure it’s _his_ attitude that’s the problem?”

“Of course! What else could it be?”

There’s a long moment of awkward silence before his mother blatantly changes the subject to tell him about something ridiculous the neighbor is doing.

Why can’t anyone else see that he’s not the problem here?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Oh my god, Gags, he’s driving me up a fucking wall. Everything’s a goddamn competition with him, and he can’t ever let anything go, he’s always up in my face, and he won’t leave me alone about wasting my talent at --”

“You want him killed?” Sam asks, voice calm and level, not even looking up from the video game he and JT are playing.

“What?!”

“I’m sorry, that just seemed like the next logical step, as dramatic as you were being.”

Patrick looks back and forth between Sam and JT. He’s having real trouble deciding if Sam’s serious. “I’m not sure that murder is the best solution to this problem.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“What do you think _is_ the best solution?” JT asks.

“I just want him to leave me alone!” Patrick collapses onto the beanbag chair next to the couch with a poof of dust.

“Are you sure about that?” Sam glances away from the video game and cocks his head sideways.

“What?”

“Are you sure you want him to leave you alone? ‘Cause you don’t act like you want him to leave you alone.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrick replies, picking at a loose thread on his shorts.

Sam and JT dissolve into a fit of giggles, snorts, and chuckles. Patrick glares at them until their mirth dies down.

“Yeah, okay, Kaner, whatever you say,” Sam finally gets out. ‘Want to try that again?”

“Fuck off, Gags,” Patrick pouts.

“Fine, fine, just - I don’t know what Tazer’s problem with you is, but if you really want him to leave you alone, you might try not responding to his taunting. Or starting shit with him. Just a thought.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick grumbles. “Let’s stop talking about this. I got winner.”

Sam looks like he wants to argue, but he can’t unless he wants to lose the game. And none of them like to lose, so he gives up, just as Patrick had hoped. He knows perfectly well that he doesn’t actually want Jonny to leave him alone….he’d just like to have him pay a different kind of attention to him. But that’s completely beside the point.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jonny thinks half the reason they spend so much time at the Gagner’s is the pool. Toronto’s not Texas, but it’s still warm enough. The whole performance group is currently spread around the concrete pad or in the bright blue water, splashing each other and generally being obnoxious.

“No, but seriously,” P.K.’s saying from the lounge chair next to Jonny, “how many popsicles in a row do you think you can eat?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“Well, the record around here is six.”

“In what amount of time?”

“Five minutes.”

Jonny has no idea how many popsicles he can eat in five minutes, but he’s not one to let a challenge go unacknowledged.

“I can do at least eight.”

“Bullshit!” Patrick yells from the pool. “There’s no way you can do eight popsicles in five minutes. Not even possible.”

“Fuck off,” Jonny snaps back. “I can so.”

Patrick swims to the edge of the pool and pushes himself up out of the water. (Jonny is definitely not watching any of that water run down the muscles of Patrick’s chest - this is not a chick flick.)

“Prove it,” Patrick taunts, pushing dripping golden curls out of his eyes.

“Prove what?” Jonny asks.

“That you can eat eight popsicles in five minutes.”

“Oh, right, that. Okay, I will.”

“Gags! Bring out some popsicles!” P.K. shouts across the pool.

A few minutes later, Jonny is seated at the patio table staring at a ridiculously large pile of popsicles. He and his sensitive teeth are probably going to regret this. The rest of the guys are clustered around the table. Sam’s holding an honest-to-god stopwatch that’s possibly older than everyone present.

“You know,” says a quiet voice from behind Jonny, “this would be more interesting if it were a race.”

“Yes! Excellent idea, Pricey,” P.K. beams past Jonny. “Who wants to race Tazer here?”

After several long moments of awkward throat clearing and avoided eye contact, one of them finally steps up to the challenge.

“I’ll do it.”

It’s Patrick, because of course it is. The popsicles are divided up, and JT suggests that they unwrap them before the timing starts. As they work, Jonny takes the opportunity to swap out all of the orange on his plate for the purple on Patrick’s.

Patrick looks back and forth between him and the plate in disbelief. “Is this guy serious?” he asks Sam.

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Can we get on with this?” He yells “go”, and they dive into their respective piles.

Jonny is not above throwing an elbow or two when the situation calls for it -- or even when it doesn’t. Patrick does his best to dodge, but he isn’t always successful. Jonny chews his popsicles - barely - but still only manages six before Sam shouts “time!” Six is okay, though; Patrick only managed five.

Patrick doesn’t look very upset. “You’re a fucking cheater,” he says calmly.

“Am not,” Jonny replies with a smirk. “I simply take advantage of the opportunities I can make for myself.”

Patrick rolls his eyes dramatically. He slides out of the crowd of people pressing in to chirp Jonny and disappears into the house. Jonny can’t help watching him go; that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Can you believe him? I don’t even think he was trying.”

“Jonny, there are no words to describe how little I want to hear about how obnoxious you find Kaner.”

“But Corey--”

“No, Jonny, I’m serious. I - and everyone else here - is very, very tired of hearing about your obsession with Kaner.”

“I am NOT obsessed with him!”

"You aren’t? Because you spend an awful lot of time talking about him, talking to him, trying to antagonize him, inserting yourself into groups he’s in…” Corey trails off with a raised eyebrow. “But maybe we’re all just misunderstanding.” He goes into their kitchen with their empty plates, leaving Jonny on the couch staring blankly at the television.

Is he obsessed with Kaner? No, no he isn’t, he decides. He’s just not used to being challenged like this. He’s never known anyone like Patrick like Kaner. Not that he’d want to, right, like, one of him is enough, nobody else should get to have have to deal with a Kaner.

Jonny shakes his head. He must have gotten too much sun out by the pool, maybe too much water in his ears. There’s definitely no other explanation for some of the things he was just thinking. He reaches for the remote; a distraction is just what he needs.

What he gets is an old movie with a tiny blond woman singing “anything you can do, I can do better” at some guy, which just makes him think of Kaner and his taunts at their scrimmage the other day. He gives up. Maybe he’ll go for a run instead.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The final week of shows features scrimmages instead of shootout competitions for some reason that Jonny has yet to hear. The very last show has an extra special twist though -  “Alright you bunch of hooligans, whichever team loses today’s scrimmage buys the pizza tonight. Toews, Tavares, you’re captains; pick your teams.”

Jonny can’t decide if he wants Patrick on his team or not. He wastes two picks debating, then loses his shot when JT picks Patrick instead. The two sides start chirping each other in the locker room as they get ready. Clearly, no one wants to buy pizza for 20 college-age boys. As Jonny laces his skates, he keeps an eye on the whispered conversation Patrick is having with Gags across the room. They’re debating something pretty strongly, with Patrick presenting one opinion and Gags vehemently opposing it. Just about the time that Jonny’s going to go over there and intervene, Gags throws up his hands in defeat and walks away. Patrick watches him go, then catches Jonny watching. He raises one eyebrow and then licks his lips. Jonny flushes and looks back at his skates; he’s tied the left one into a ridiculous knot. With a vicious frown, he focuses back on his laces and determines to put Patrick out of his mind.

The trick shot part of the show goes off without a hitch. The scrimmage is only ten minutes long, at the end of the show, but everyone throws themselves into it with extra energy. With a little over a minute left, the teams are tied. The crowd is cheering wildly, and the players sitting on the benches are shouting encouragement and chirps. The ref sets them at center ice for a final face off. JT wins the draw and shoots the puck over to Gags.  He and Patrick take off past Jonny, passing back and forth and dekeing around PK and Bortz. Jonny chases after, with Giroux and Couture trailing behind. Somehow, in the organized chaos that follows, Johnny sees Patrick twitch slightly and just _knows_ that he’s about to pass to JT. He slides into the path of the puck and shoots off towards Pricey at the other end of the ice. He doesn’t look, but he’s certain he’s alone. There’s one brief flash of open net, and Jonny’s shooting before he even thinks about it. The puck slices just over Pricey’s shoulder, missing him by centimeters and slamming into the back of the net.

He skids to a stop against the glass. The rest of his line pile into him shortly after. The buzzer sounds and the emcee begins to wrap up the show. The teams come together at center ice to salute the crowd, but split off into small groups as the audience files out.

Jonny is surrounded by most of the guys he’d chosen for his team, all of which want to congratulate him on the play and thank him for saving them a few dollars. Across the ice, another group of guys are gathered in a loose circle around JT. One of them shifts, revealing Patrick at the actual center of the crowd, slight frame hidden by the taller, bulkier players.

As Gags leans in to pat him consolingly on the shoulder, Patrick looks up suddenly and catches Jonny watching again. There’s a flash of a smug grin and a slow, deliberate wink, then the group shifts again and impedes Jonny’s view. Bortz asks him a question; in the resulting conversation, Jonny misses Patrick leaving the ice altogether.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Later that night, the performance team gathers in a conference room deep in the bowels of the HOF offices. The table is crowded with pizza boxes, most of which are now empty, and various cans and bottles, most of which are non-alcoholic (Jonny’s not making any promises about the bottles of ‘juice’ Couture had brought in).

Jonny leans against a wall, sipping lukewarm root beer and watching the antics of this group of guys who have somehow become his friends over the last couple of months. Corey is holding up another wall, over in a corner, glaring indiscriminately over the rim of his own cup. P.K. is the center of a group, one arm draped over Pricey, the other gesticulating wildly. Giroux has clearly had some of Couture’s juice, because he’s lecturing several people very seriously about something. Unfortunately, he’s doing it in French to a bunch of Anglophones.

“That was a nice breakaway earlier.” Patrick leans against the wall about a foot away.

“Uh, thanks.”

They stand in awkward silence together for a moment, watching Bortuzzo try to walk on his hands and fail miserably.

“So, uh,” Jonny starts. “What are you doing this fall?”

Patrick’s lips twitch minutely, but he doesn’t smile. “I’m going home for a bit. And classes start in a couple weeks.”

“Right. Western New York State University.” Jonny can’t keep the derision from his voice. He sips at his root beer again. “You know you could do better than that place, right?”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.” Patrick rolls his eyes. He takes a sip of his own soda, chasing a stray drop across his lower lip with his tongue.

Jonny looks at his shoes. He needs to say something else. He knows it, but he doesn’t know what it is. Part of his brain is screaming “stophimdon’tlethimgo”, but it has no answer for “how” he’s supposed to do that or even “why”.

“Kaner!” Gags shouts from across the room. “You riding with us?”

“Yeah,” Patrick calls back. He tosses back the rest of his soda and lobs the empty cup towards the trash can. It bounces off the edge and in.

“Well, Tazer, it’s been an experience. Good luck at your fancy D1 school.” He reaches his right hand out.

Jonny clasps it firmly. “SAY SOMETHING!!!” his brain screams.

“Thanks, Kaner. You too.”

Patrick lingers a moment, as if he’s waiting for Jonny to say more. When nothing else comes, he slowly takes his hand back, dragging it against every inch of Jonny’s palm.

“Goodbye, Jonny.”

He turns and walks towards the door. He waves at a few people who holler goodbyes, pauses briefly to hug P.K. Then he disappears through the door.

Following behind him, Gags glances back at Jonny. He hesitates for a step, then shakes his head, disappointment all over his face as he turns away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jonny goes home for a couple of weeks. He sees a few people, does a lot of laundry, lets his mother lecture him about being responsible and making good choices this year. He tells a lot of stories about his time in Toronto. After the first twenty-four hours, David implements a house wide ban on the any stories involving Patrick Kane. Jonny, being the clever older brother he is, circumvented that by talking to his mom while helping her weed the garden.

They’re on their fourth flower bed, pausing for a brief water break, when his mother sneak attacks him.

“So why did you never introduce us to your boyfriend any of the times we were Skyping this summer?”

Jonny spits water on his mother’s begonias. “What boyfriend?” he asks when he finally stops coughing.

“This Patrick you keep talking about, you were together, yes?”

“No! Like, no, not even a little bit!”

“Did you want to be?”

He sputters and stutters a bit before she pats him on the arm. “It’s okay, honey,” she says with a laugh. “You don’t have to answer that.”

He huffs in frustration. “It wasn’t like that, _maman_ , Kaner was just around a lot, and he gets on my nerves.”

“I’m sure you’re right, honey. You haven’t told me much about this Corey that you were living with; did you see him much?”

He takes a breath to answer that -- of course he saw Corey all the time, they lived in the same apartment, he saw him more than he saw anyone -- when he realizes what she’s just done. His mother is so much smarter than him.

He pulls a few weeds mechanically, trying to look at himself objectively. In the last few days, he’s talked about a lot of things, and somehow the majority have had to do ~~with Kaner~~ with Patrick. He did stuff with other people; the performance team only hung out away from the rink once or twice a week. Even when smaller groups of the guys hung out, he and Patrick were rarely in the same group. So maybe “he was around a lot” is not a valid excuse.

“Gets on his nerves”....that’s a little better excuse. Patrick got under his skin for sure, but honestly he wasn’t much worse than any of the other guys. There was just something about his stupid face, and those fucking beautiful eyes, and….and…. And his mother might be on to something.

“Okay, so I might have had a bit of a crush on Patrick.”

His mother just smiles and hums in agreement.

“But I didn’t notice, and I think I missed my shot.”

“Jonathan, what do we say about missed shots?”

“ _You miss 100% of the shots you don't take,_ ” he quotes, rolling his eyes a little.

“Exactly. You know that making a shot sometimes means taking a risk, and it always means working hard. So you might need to put some extra effort in and take a risk; only you can decide if this Patrick will be worth it.”

Jonny nods, and they let that conversation die. His mother pats him on the head when she climbs to her feet several minutes later. He decides to sprawl out in the shade of the big oak tree in the backyard and think.

Over the next week, he thinks a lot. He replays his final conversation with Patrick in every possible variation. He’s imagined a thousand different responses than “Thanks, Kaner. You too.” He could have given Patrick hundreds of compliments that he’d thought over the summer but never shared out loud. What if he’d reached out, touched one of those delicate wrists, taken hold of one of those incredible, talented hands? What if he’d followed them out to the parking lot instead of finding out how horrible pineapple juice and cheap gin tastes mixed together? He could have begged a ride home, asked Patrick to come up instead of dropping him at the curb.

He comes to the conclusion that he is, as his brother often suggests, an idiot. Now he just has to figure out how to get that shot back. He left Toronto with a bunch of phone numbers, email addresses, and social media contacts from the team. He is disappointed but not surprised to find out that neither Patrick nor Gags is among them. That would have been much too easy. Eventually, he remembers that P.K. was good friends with JT, who seemed to be attached at the hip to Gags; maybe they’d pass some messages along for him.

He shoots an email off to P.K., asking if someone would give him a way to get in touch with Patrick, and then he distracts himself with repacking all his shit to head back to UND. He gets a response a few days later that P.K. has passed the message along and he’ll let him know.

He still hasn’t gotten a reply when he loads up his car for the drive to Grand Forks. He decides he’s going to wait until classes start to make another attempt. Maybe it’s just taking a while for everyone to talk to each other. Maybe Patrick’s thinking about whether or not he wants him to get in touch. If he hasn’t heard anything after his first day of classes, he’ll see if someone else might have Patrick’s number and be willing to share.

With a plan in place, he flips on the radio and resolves not to think about Patrick again until he gets to Grand Forks. (He makes it half a mile.)

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A week before classes start, UND’s hockey team has a tryout for freshman. It’s also a pre-season evaluation for the recruited transfer students. As a junior, Jonny is unofficially obligated to help out, and he’s running very, very late.

“C’mon, Toes!” TJ shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “We were supposed to leave five minutes ago. You’re definitely not going to be the first one in the locker room!”

Jonny stumbles down the stairs, shirt mostly buttoned, one shoe on and the other in his hand. “Why are you even coming, you don’t have to be there.”

“I figured I’d get my workout in while you’re there.”

“So you want me to drive you.”

“I want you to drive me. Also, I hear one of the transfers is pretty good, thought I’d take a peek.”

“Transfers? How many do we have this year?”

“I don’t know, bro, maybe three? Are you about done?”

Jonny tugs his shoelaces one last time and stands up. “Yeah, let me grab my bag.”

He has to rush through his routine a little more than he’d like, but he isn’t the last one on the ice. A few of the freshmen are too busy staring around the locker room in awe to gear up, but it’s not Jonny’s job to yell at them. Yet.

TJ’s sprawled on the bench chatting with one of the equipment guys when Jonny comes out of the tunnel.

“Hey, bro, Gary says there’s just the one transfer this year, after all. Guess a couple didn’t make it. That’s him over there.” He points towards the far net, where a smallish guy is stickhandling his way through a pile of pucks. Something about the way he moves looks so familiar….

The sharp blast of a whistle interrupts his staring; coach is waving everyone to center ice to get started. Jonny and the three other upperclassman group up behind him while he starts his introductory speech.

Jonny’s scanning the group, wondering how this year’s group is going to turn out, when he’s blindsided by a pair of very familiar blue eyes.

“And finally, let me introduce our transfer student, Patrick Kane, here from Western New York State. We’ve been interested in Patrick for a while, and we finally got him on board over the summer. Welcome to North Dakota, Patrick.”

“Thank you, sir,” Patrick says shyly. He peeks back up to look at Jonny. “I’m excited to be here.”

“Alright then, let’s get started.”

Jonny can’t move as the group disperses about the ice. “What are you doing here?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Patrick raises an eyebrow at him. “I transferred.”

“But, I don’t, I-- why didn’t you say anything?” He skates a little closer.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be happy to hear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy about it?”

“Seriously?” Patrick laughs. “You did nothing but criticize me and try to beat me at everything except breathing all summer. Why would you be happy to see me again?”

Jonny just stares, mouth agape. “Patrick, I…that makes it sound like I didn’t like you at all.”

“You liked me?”

In retrospect, he can understand why Patrick would think that, and he’s a little ashamed of himself.

“Okay, so I maybe didn’t like you very much at first, and I definitely didn’t like losing to you at fucking everything--”

“You did not, big baby!”

“AS I WAS SAYING, when you weren’t beating me at shit, you were…”

A few seconds pass before Patrick asks “I was what?”

“Distracting,” Jonny says quietly.

Patrick shifts his weight a little, opens his mouth a couple of time before he actually says anything. “Is distracting a bad thing?”

Jonny slides a little closer, invading Patrick’s space until Patrick makes eye contact with him.

“No, it’s not.”

Patrick’s cheeks color a pretty shade of pink. “Good. Because you, uh, you’re pretty distracting too.”

Jonny knows he looks smug right now; if he didn’t know it was his default reaction to being complimented, Patrick’s eye roll would have given it away.

“Can we maybe spend more time on the distracting and less time trying to beat each other at everything?”

Patrick giggles. “Maybe both? You’re too much fun to antagonize.”

It’s Jonny’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Fine. I just have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“That last night, in Toronto - did you turnover the puck on purpose?”

Patrick skates away, almost doubled over with laughter.

“Patrick, Patrick! I’m serious, did you let me win, because that is not cool! Dammit! Patrick!”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "6 Months" by Hey Monday
> 
> Come yell at me about these idiots (or other idiots, I'm attached to a lot) at [My Tumblr](leyley09.tumblr.com)


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